


you're like a disease, without any cure

by mediaville



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Face-Fucking, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediaville/pseuds/mediaville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis wonders if Harry will bring her back to the hotel tonight, if Harry still does that. It’s only been a year since their last tour, but Harry seems completely different now. Taller, older, fitter, quieter. Louis isn’t even sure if Harry still fucks girls, or if he prefers cock all the time now. If Nick’s okay with Harry fucking other people while they’re on tour and he’s not around. </p>
<p>If that would include Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're like a disease, without any cure

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on a fic with Becka, and I was supposed to be writing a scene where Harry and Louis have some UST while on tour. Unfortunately, I couldn't stop Harry from blowing Louis. So just posting this as a PWP, unrelated to our other fic monster.

In Manchester, they go clubbing. Even though it’s early in the tour, it’s always great to have a release for their energy, a chance to just be lads, drinking too much, dancing like fools, laughing too loud.

There are girls everywhere, like a swarm. There always are, at the venues, or hanging round the hotel lobbies, but in the club the girls are far more aggressive, slithering in between them, pressing mouths and breasts and thighs wherever they can reach.

Girls flock to all of them, but Harry is like the Pied Piper. Harry gets the girls and their mothers, always gets the most forward girls in the bunch. There are girls for all of them, all of the time, but whereas girls bring Niall bags of chips, they bring Harry sex, tits spilling out of tops, skirts hiked up high on too-young and too-old thighs. They love to touch his hair, pull his shirts up and down so that they can see his tattoos, touch their fingers to the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles.

And whereas Zayn sometimes gets uncomfortable, Liam giggly and shocked or Niall amused, Harry just soaks it in. He flirts back in a way that makes it seem like he’s not even trying, like there’s something he finds alluring in each and every one of them. His slow smiles and twinkling eyes aren’t just for show. Harry looks like he would genuinely fuck everyone in the world, if he only had the time. 

There’s a small, curvy one with tanned skin and short, shiny dark hair chatting him up now, and Louis takes a few steps back, extricates himself from the crowd a bit so that he can lean back against the wall for a moment and catch his breath. Watch.

She’s talking, gesturing with her hands. Harry is ducked down to listen, smile spreading slowly across his face as he does. He touches her first, tucking her fringe back behind her ear, laughing a little. She reaches up then, does the same to him, and Harry gives her a cheeky grin, winking.

Louis wonders if Harry will bring her back to the hotel tonight, if Harry still does that. It’s only been a year since their last tour, but Harry seems completely different now. Taller, older, fitter, quieter. Louis isn’t even sure if Harry still fucks girls, or if he prefers cock all the time now. If Nick’s okay with Harry fucking other people while they’re on tour and he’s not around. 

If that would include Louis. 

He’s zoning out a little, watching Harry and his girl, her dark skin and curves contrasted against Harry’s pale, lean lines, when he catches Harry looking back at him. The shock of eye contact buzzes through Louis, makes him panic enough to get his pulse racing.

But then Harry’s grinning at him, nodding over the girl’s shoulder, nudging her to look in Louis’ direction.

Louis is too pissed to look away like he should, to dart his eyes elsewhere and pretend he hadn’t been staring. He holds Harry’s gaze, doesn’t even look at the girl as she turns to face him and they walk over together.

“This is Martina,” Harry says. He’s stood behind her, so when he leans forward to speak into Louis’ ear, he presses her against Louis’s chest. “She wanted to meet you.”

“Hi,” the girl, Martina, says. 

Louis keeps his eyes on Harry’s. He takes a drink of vodka. Harry grins.

The girl makes a move like she’s going to step back, probably sensing that she’s literally stepped in the middle of something uglier than she’d been looking for. Maybe Louis is being rude to her by not acknowledging her but the truth is he doesn’t care. He gives 99% of his life to girls he doesn’t know. He needs a bit of time, late at night, where he doesn’t have to paste a big smile on his face, pretend to give a fuck about every giggling girl who approaches him. Harry crowds up against her back then, ducking his head and murmuring in her ear. Her eyes flutter closed, and she relaxes back against Harry’s body, arching slightly to rub against him.

“Don’t be shy,” he hears Harry saying. “You can touch.”

And then Louis feels hands on his chest, her small hands, guided by Harry’s larger ones. Harry pushes her hands down Louis’s stomach and sides, down around his waist, reaching for his bum, and she’s wrapped around him, but so is _Harry_ , and Louis has to close his eyes for a moment, empty his brain of everything save the thumping beat and the smell of Harry’s cologne.

The girl kisses his neck then, soft mouth pressing small kisses around his throat and collarbone, and Louis lets her, opens his eyes and sees Harry there, so close. He knows he’s supposed to want this, beautiful girls in clubs. She’s supposed to make him dizzy, make his heart pound, but instead it’s Harry who’s making him feel drunker than he is, who’s making him want things he shouldn’t.

“Wanna take her home?” Harry asks, pressing close enough that Louis can feel the question against the shell of his ear, the fine hairs high on his jaw.

Louis watches him for a long moment, sees the way Harry’s eyes keep dipping down to Louis’ mouth. It’s shitty of him, but it makes him feel smug to know that even beautiful girls (even hipster radio presenters) can’t erase the simmering want Harry has always had for Louis.

He thinks about how Harry means it, if he means for the two of them to fuck her, together. He thinks about Harry between her legs. Over her, spine long with her delicate ankles nudging at his arse. He thinks about watching the muscles of Harry’s shoulders and back as he gives it to her, thinks about touching Harry himself.

“Nope,” Louis says finally, keeping his gaze steady. Harry shrugs and smiles at him anyway, leans in and kisses him on the cheek, then pulls back, tugging the girl with him off to the dance floor.

There’s an ugly feeling in the pit of Louis’ stomach, dark and possessive. He recognizes jealousy now. It’s not like he remembers feeling it with Eleanor. It’s hot and shameful, because he has no right to it. He has no claim over Harry, no reason to want to claw at this pretty little girl dancing with Harry. No reason to want to shove Nick Grimshaw away or argue Zayn out of sharing a room with Harry. It’s fucked up but it’s happening. All he can do is look away, push it down.

Again.

The next two drinks burn on the way down, and Louis is feeling fairly buzzed when Liam suggests they stop for a curry before heading back to the hotel.

When he lets himself into the room, Harry’s there, sitting on one of the beds, scrolling through his phone. There’s no sign of the girl.

“How was Maria?”

He wants to punch himself in the face for asking. It makes him so fucking transparent. So petty. And while the awful, jealous part of him is glad the girl isn’t here, there’s an even worse part of him that’s disappointed that he didn’t walk in on them, didn’t get to see Harry slicked with sweat and saliva and come.

Harry looks up, frowning. “Martina,” he says.

“Of course,” Louis says dismissively, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off. “How could I forget.”

Harry watches him intently, eyes dropping down to Louis’s bare chest, and Louis feels his stomach tighten, his nipples pebble up. Harry seems to have forgotten whatever he was doing with his phone, attention zeroed in on Louis now. 

It rankles him, that Harry doesn’t even try to pretend, to reign it in. Louis at least has the decency to look away, but Harry stares, hungry.

He forces himself to keep undressing despite the thrill zinging through his body. The want between them is thick, palpable.

He walks over to his bag, grabs a soft pair of pyjama bottoms, tosses them on the bed opposite Harry’s.

“Disappointed,” Harry says quietly. 

Louis comes back around to the bed, sits for a moment as he kicks off his shoes. He raises an eyebrow at Harry and asks, “Were you?”

He stands again, drops his hands to his flies, starts to unfasten them. Harry stares.

“What?”

Louis pauses, tilts his head at Harry. “Disappointed?”

Harry shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear water from his ears. “Not me, her,” he says, wiping at his mouth. 

“Ah.” The skin on Louis’s arms turns to gooseflesh as he pushes his jeans off, nape of his neck prickling with the awareness that he’s half hard in his pants, certain that Harry can tell. He slips his sleep pants on and tugs them up as quickly as he can.

And then he’s just standing there, facing Harry on the bed. No reason to be there, other than he doesn’t want to get into his own bed, doesn’t want to step away and he’s just drunk enough to let himself linger.

He scratches at his stomach, watches Harry track the movement. It’s fucked up but so so delicious, how bad this is.

“Don’t put yourself down,” Louis starts to say, but his voice breaks, trails off when Harry reaches for him.

“I think,” Harry says, voice deep and slow. “She was after this,” he says, and then he hooks his long fingers in the front of Louis’s pants. 

Louis sucks in a breath, pulling his stomach away from the heat of Harry’s fingers. Harry tugs a little, making Louis stumble towards him. He steadies himself with a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and that makes Harry look up at him like—

“Wasn’t interested,” Louis says, cursing inwards at how breathless he sounds. He can’t stop, even though he needs to. He needs to be the one in control of this, who keeps them from doing things they shouldn’t.

Harry just watches him, mouth hanging open, slack. And it’s Louis’s fault for not stepping away, for not getting into bed and turning away, when Harry, _fuck_ , Harry slides his big hand down, cupping Louis between his legs, feeling him out.

Louis bites his lip to keep from groaning. He’s hard already, but he fattens up further right in Harry’s hand, knows Harry can feel it.

“Feels like you’re interested now,” Harry says, voice gone hoarse and shaky.

Harry’s eyes are wide and uncertain, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do this. His mouth is red and wet. Louis knows it’s bad, really fucking bad, but that knowledge is overshadowed partially by the lingering buzz, but mostly by how much he _wants_ this, wants Harry like a fierce, frightening hunger.

Louis lets his hand drift up, up from Harry’s shoulder and into the mess of his hair. He rubs at Harry’s ear, tangles his fingers into Harry’s curls as Harry looks up at him, sucks on his bottom lip.

Suddenly all Louis wants is to have Harry Styles, world-famous, talented, gorgeous, young Harry Styles, on his knees for him. Harry’s his mate, and if Louis thinks about that he’ll back out, be too concerned about what Harry will tell Nick, worry about what Harry thinks this means. But Harry’s also this slutty strange man-boy, grown into something hot and unrecognizable to Louis, and when Louis thinks about that he just wants to choke Harry with his cock.

“S’just because you’re pawing at me,” Louis says, gruff. His words are an attempt to play it all off, but he keeps his fingers curled tight in Harry’s hair.

Harry’s cheeks are flushed pink, and Louis can see Harry’s own prick, poking up through his pants, arrowed towards his pale belly. It’s ridiculous how aroused they both are, like something real is about to happen. Like they’re about to fuck.

The very idea makes Louis clench his arsehole, defensive. 

“Lou,” Harry breathes out, pressing his face forward. He nuzzles against his hand, nose rubbing at the tip of Louis’s erection where it’s snagged in his pants.

“What are you doing,” Louis asks, because it makes it seem like it’s all Harry, just Harry.

Harry doesn’t answer, just pushes his mouth between Louis’s legs and inhales. When he breathes out, Louis groans at the feeling of Harry’s hot breath around his dick.

“Such a slut for me,” Louis murmurs, unable to keep quiet. It’s vindictive and cruel, the way he thrills at the idea that Harry wants him more than he’s ever wanted anyone else. Enough that he’ll risk making a fool of himself, risk rejection like this. Harry whimpers and nudges up against him, rubbing harder now.

“Go on then,” Louis says, louder this time. “I know you want it.”

Harry tugs at his pants, just gets them down over Louis’s hip, enough to trap the head of his cock in soft cotton. “God,” Harry breathes before mouthing low on Louis’s stomach, pressing his teeth and lips wet and sloppy where Louis is softest.

“Quit mucking about,” Louis says, hating how his voice breaks. He yanks down his pants and pulls Harry forward, so that he stumbles off the bed, lands clumsily on his knees, hands moving to Louis’s thighs to steady himself. Louis wraps a hand around his own cock, pushing back the foreskin and thumbing at the head, making it good and slick.

Harry drops a hand to clutch at his own erection, hand wriggling into his pants as he groans with how good it feels. He looks up at Louis, mouth loose and open, and Louis has to step forward, tap his prick on Harry’s bottom lip.

“Open up,” he says, pressing forward.

Harry does, letting his tongue come out just the tiniest bit, like he can’t wait to taste.

“Christ,” Louis groans as he sinks in, pushing deep into Harry’s soft mouth. Harry closes his lips and sucks, drools messily all over Louis’s cock. Other than that, though, Harry doesn’t move. Doesn’t bob down on Louis, and it makes Louis insane when he realizes what Harry wants.

He’s fucking shameless and it makes Louis insane. He grips Harry’s hair tight and pulls him down, forcing Harry onto his cock.

“Mmmnn,” Harry moans, and Louis can see how his shoulder is shaking, how the muscles of his arm are tight as he wanks himself.

“You want it,” Louis says again, breathless this time. “You want me to fuck you like this.” He shoves in harder this time, pulls out slow, dragging his cock on Harry’s tongue and lips. He wants to go fast, has to remind himself again and again to make sure Harry can breathe, his nostrils flared and eyes watery.

“You want me to fuck you for real,” Louis whispers, but Harry lights up, surging forward and sucking him hard, arm moving jack-rabbit fast.

“Don’t you come,” Louis hisses. “Fucking hold it, Harry.”

Harry whines then, closes his eyes and forces himself to slow his arm. His eyebrows knit together, face crumpling like he’s in pain and _that_ does it for Louis, makes him swell up tighter, makes him shove Harry back just for the thrill of taking something away from this fucking kid who makes him so fucked up, so out of control. He gets a hand on his cock and tugs, fast, thrilling when his come splatters on Harry’s cheek, slides down his nose, drips into his mouth. Harry blinks quickly, tongue darting out to catch as much as he can.

Louis pulls loosely at his dick, making sure to get every last drop of come out so that he can wipe his messy hand on Harry’s face, rub his come into Harry’s hair.

He feels like shit now, head pounding and sore. Harry’s waiting for him, hands gripping at his own thighs tight, cock hard and poking out of his pants, red swollen tip wet with precome.

“Look at you,” Louis says, nudging at Harry’s crotch with his bare foot. “Covered in come, ready to fucking explode. Dying to wank, yeah? Just from the feeling of a cock in your mouth.”

He doesn’t say _my cock_ , but they both know it’s the case.

Harry lets his eyes flutter closed, but he keeps his hands on his thighs, waiting.

“Get up,” Louis says, pressing his foot up again, hard enough to make Harry wince at the pressure on his bollocks. Harry clambers to his feet, sways close to Louis, but Louis pushes him back. “On the bed, on your belly.”

Harry goes without a word, pressing his face into the pillows. 

“No, no,” Louis tsks, stepping forward and grabbing the pillow, pulling it out from Harry’s grasp. “Up,” he says, tapping Harry’s bottom. When Harry’s hips rise up from the bed, Louis tugs his pants down and shoves the pillow under him, so that Harry’s cock can nestle into it.

“Show me how you fuck,” Louis says, leaving his hand on Harry’s bum. “Wanna see you get off like this, fucking the bed like-”

Harry’s moaning and humping the pillow before Louis stutters, stopping himself from thinking about _who_ Harry would be fucking. Harry’s hands are both curled in the sheets by his face, hips circling and shoving down in a frantic rhythm.

“That’s a good lad,” Louis murmurs, fitting his fingers into the curve of Harry’s spine, wrapping his hands around Harry’s hips and pushing down, giving Harry more pressure. There’s sweat wetting the hair around Harry’s face, making the curves of muscle in his back shine.

“Next time,” Louis says as he presses down again, making Harry groan. “Don’t waste my time with some bloody bird, yeah?” He lets one hand drop lower, lets himself push a thumb down in between Harry’s cheeks, making Harry shudder and groan. “It’s not like I can’t tell when you want me. Bloody everyone can tell, Harry.”

“Shit,” Harry whispers, eyes squeezed tight. He hunches his hips down and holds them still, pressing into the pillow for a long moment, arms tense and breath shaky. Then it’s like his strings have been cut, and he just moans out loud and fucks his hips down hard, once, twice, three times, spreading his long fingers wide on the bed and rubbing into the creamy mess that’s soaking into the sheets.

Louis holds still for a moment, committing it all to memory. Then he drags his thumb up, wipes it crudely on Harry’s arsecheek.

“Thanks,” Harry breathes, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Clean yourself up before you go to sleep,” Louis says as he wanders over to his bed. “Or you’ll wake up stuck to the bed.”

He gets into bed and closes his eyes, rolling away from Harry so that he can’t see Harry’s face as he pulls himself off the bed and stumbles towards the shower. 

Later, when Harry comes back into the bedroom, he whispers, “Lou?” but Louis doesn’t answer. He forces his breathing to be steady and slow, keeps his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see Harry all damp and shower-clean, doesn’t want to talk about what they did or if they’re going to do it again.

Harry’s never going to learn if Louis keeps letting this happen, if Louis indulges him with cuddles and whispers in the dark. This was a fluke, just a series of bad choices fueled by a combination of vodka, nostalgia and the odd brand of loneliness that comes from never being alone. Louis let himself slip, but he’s resolved now. 

It won’t happen again.


End file.
